The Reason Behind My Voice

                                                                      Photo by  Simon Berger  on  Unsplash One lesson I have been avoiding is how temporary everything can be. I thought that the longer I evaded this lesson, is the longer it would not apply to me.  Unfortunately, that impermanence also extends to our bonds and relationships. My good friend Novie says, "We do not own people." And that is very true. We do not own their human experiences nor do we get to dictate how long people stay in our lives . They can walk away when the need arises. We are allowed to go our separate ways. We often want to stay longer than we should and want to fight for love and relationships, when these things should come easy. We often give in to the urge to stay even when th...

Photo credit: Cash Macanaya on Unsplash Do you write people off or do you take them as they? While on my much-needed hiatus, I was able to do some introspection about life, people, and the spaces I occupy presently.  Photo by Dom Aguiar on Unsplash Earlier this year, I experienced a great betrayal (at one point or another, most of us have experienced this or will - it is part of life). I won't go into much detail, but it was from someone I held very dear and in high esteem. In the end, I realized that not everyone sees you as you see them.  People are complex - not complicated but dynamic.  Photo by Jeffery Erhunse on Unsplash If we are honest, we will admit that the people in our lives hold different roles for different folks. Someone we may deem as a hero in our story may very well be a villain in someone else's. I am sure that you have played a villainous role in someone's life. And that is perfectly fine because people are complex - multifaceted.   Take a ...

  The Adinkra symbol  Sankofa has   been heavy on my mind lately.  The symbol is a bird that flies forward but looks backward. It means "Reach back and fetch it." Photo credit: Adinkra Corner How many times were we told that we should not look back, only forward?  Poets like Lucille Clifton were always "reaching back and fetch it" for great wisdom resides in the past. When Hurricane Maria struck on 18th September 2017, life as I knew it was over. Instead of celebrating my 25th birthday that year, I was salvaging my belongings. I concentrated on all that was lost. I held grief around my neck and, my waist and I carried it with me for years. When my birthday comes around, so does a great sadness. Photo credit: Melchior Damu     A few days before my birthday this year, I subconsciously began noticing things that had survived the floodwaters. Like my family, my guitar (which I haven't touched in years), my hot wheels cars, my favorite fountain pen, and my ...

 Rest  Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash I recently rang a relative to wish her happy birthday and asked her what she planned to do for the day. She candidly replied, "Work. We are a hard-working family, remember?"  She was telling the truth. I grew up watching my family till the soil with their bare hands, after all "by the sweat our brow" we had to eat. There is nothing wrong with working hard to provide for yourself and others but at what cost? I decided a long time ago that would not be my narrative.  Balance  Photo by Karsten Winegeart on Unsplash  I know what it means to work yourself to the ground. I know what it means to grind and hustle. I know what it means to get caught up in the horrors and toxicity of capitalism. I had to watch my mother do it and, for a while, I inherited that culture.  But there is nothing wrong with laying it down and walking away to redefine productivity.  I know what it means to work myself to exhaustion but, I...

 Not Afraid of Winning! Photo by Laurent Perren on Unsplash Like most writers and artists, I struggle with imposter syndrome and anxiety. I almost could not sit down and wield myself to write this blog.  I am learning that the first step to recovery is acknowledging you have a problem. I own that I am often afraid to pick up a pen and write, take my brush and paint much less to share my creations.  Don't get me wrong, I know greatness is in my bones. I know I can bend words and start a movement if I choose. But deep down, when the accolades are covered in dust, I tend to forget the kind of magic that exists within me. Some parts of me refuse to believe that I deserve to win.  Luckily, I am not alone in this battle and one of the perks of being part of a creative community is that you always have the wisdom of others walking you home. I'll always be grateful for my fellow writers (Edd and Erwin) and friends like Novie and Lisa who always encourage me to "do something...

Photo by eberhard 🖐 grossgasteiger on Unsplas h It took me a while but I am finally woman enough to admit it. I used to be afraid of being happy. I was afraid of experiencing joy.  It might seem silly, I know. But cherophobia is more common than we care to admit.  I think much of my fear stemmed from the false narratives I was fed as a child. "After laughing is crying" I would often hear. Whether it was on the basketball court, at school, or home. It did not take long for me to associate joy and sadness. I came to view happiness as a preamble to mourning. Photo by eberhard 🖐 grossgasteiger on Unsplash After hours of playing basketball or swimming in the river without my mother's permission, I would come home to a waiting belt. No matter how much I enjoyed myself that joy was overshadowed by the punishment.  I had my first and only birthday party at 12 years old. I enjoyed it. But soon after that, I lost most of my friends who came to the party. Part of me wished my mo...

Annie Spratt on Unsplash I once wrote a poem about succulents. But the truth is I was writing about myself and my story. Indeed, I had come a long way and progress looked good on me. (Poem can be found in my book Bonfire available on Amazon.com) As we celebrated the stories of many women and how they changed the narrative, I began thinking of my story. Many will try to convince you that they know me or know my story. But albeit, I beg to differ. The truth is no one knows my story like I know my story. And no one can tell my story like I can tell my story.  I never wanted to become a teacher; that was my mother's dream and pretty soon it became mine. I handled that dream like it was an heirloom or a rite of passage. Something handed down to me and by all means, it would enable me to lift the family name, rinse it from the mud and hold it towards the sun.  Teaching would be easy. Everyone would be proud. They would all be happy for me. These were my thoughts. This was not so an...